by Jeff Shelby
The license plate image was grainier because it was further away from wherever the camera was positioned. I tried to clean the image up, but the distance from the camera was too great and it just looked like one big smudge.
I opened another browser window and searched Patrick Dennison's name, tying it to both North Carolina and South Carolina. Nothing came back directly with his name, but there were plenty of people with that last name in both states, which didn't help me whittle anything down.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the new burner phone. I'd put a few extra numbers into the contacts that I thought might be of use. There was one I really didn't want to call, but I thought it might give me the best chance of narrowing down where Patrick was.
I scrolled through my phone until I found Kathleen Dennison's number. I stared at it for a few minutes. The display was unfamiliar on the burner phone, almost antiquated.
The last time I'd spoken to her, I'd told her two things: that I couldn't find her husband, and that her son was definitively dead. Only one was true, and even that news had been filtered as I couldn’t share the details surrounding her son’s death. She'd wanted more answers than I'd been able to give her and she'd screamed at me, swore at me and cried. Of all the conversations I'd had with people over the years, conversations that forced me to deliver harsh and painful news, my final conversation with Kathleen was probably the most difficult I'd ever had because I couldn't tell her everything I knew, and what I had been able to tell her left her broken and alone.
I didn't think she'd be happy to hear my voice, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t in a position to care about what she thought or how she felt. I needed answers, and if she wouldn't speak to me, at least I would know that I’d tried to cover that base.
My stomach tightened as the number connected.
She answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?” Her voice was cautious, suspicious and I remembered that this would be a number she didn’t recognize.
“Mrs. Dennison. This is Joe Tyler.”
There was some scuffling on the other end. “Mr. Tyler. Hello.”
“I'm sorry to be calling so late.”
She cleared her throat. “It's the middle of the night here in Las Vegas.”
“I'm aware and I apologize,” I said. “I just had a question for you and it couldn't wait. Related to your husband's case.”
“I haven't heard from him,” she said. “I've decided to presume that he's...the same as Aaron.”
Aaron. Her son, and whose death Patrick Dennison had been indirectly responsible for.
“Unless you can tell me different,” she added, but her voice was oddly flat, as if she wasn’t holding out hope.
I swallowed. “Did he ever visit the Carolinas? For any reason? Your husband, I mean.”
The line buzzed. “That's a very strange question to call me with in the middle of the night, Mr. Tyler.”
I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I know. I'm just...I'm closing up some paperwork and I didn't realize what time it was when I called.”
The line buzzed again, this time for a much longer time. It was a terrible lie on my part and I didn't expect her to believe it. I wouldn't have believed it if someone had dropped it on me.
“Paperwork,” she repeated.
I didn't say anything.
“Yes,” she said finally. “He's been to both. South Carolina more than North. He'd go up to some lake outside Charlotte to fish. And that was usually when he went to South Carolina to visit his mother. She's lived there for as long as I can remember. Patrick was born there. In Beaufort.”
The skin on my arms tingled.
“I only visited twice,” she said. “His mother and I didn't get along, and Patrick wasn't the kind who felt the need to make annual visits, though he did see her more than I did over the years. I spoke to her when Aaron disappeared and again when Patrick went missing. The conversations weren't pleasant, and, honestly, I haven't felt the need to keep in touch with her. She acted is if I was somehow responsible for both. I didn't need to hear that from her.”
“And she still lives there?” I asked. “In Beaufort?”
“Why are you asking, Mr. Tyler?”
I watched a guy lugging an enormous suitcase toward the ticket counter. It was unbalanced or the wheels were broken because it thumped and vibrated as he walked. “Like I said. Paperwork. Just trying to close up his file. Doing some background fill-in.”
She waited a bit. “Right. Well, I can't promise that's where she still lives. I would assume so, but when I called her, it was on her cell phone, not a landline.”
“I understand,” I said. “Do you by any chance have that number? Or the last address you had for her?”
“I actually don't,” she said. “I deleted her from my phone shortly after you and I last spoke. Making a clean break, I suppose you'd say.”
That made sense and I didn't think I should push her any further. I was tightrope walking with her and I didn't want to push her into inquiry mode.
“Alright,” I said. “I understand. And I really appreciate the information.”
The line hummed again.
“I should have a hundred questions for you, Mr. Tyler. Because I don't believe for a moment that you are working on paperwork or anything like that. I was a cynic before Patrick disappeared and now I'm outright distrustful.” She paused. “But I've let Patrick go. I'm done with him, wherever he may be or whatever he might be doing. So whatever the reason you're asking about him, I don't care. But I do want to ask you one question.”
I waited.
“Does this have anything at all to do with Aaron?” she asked. Her tone changed and there it was, the piece that was missing when she talked about her husband: hope. “Or should I assume he is still dead?”
I'd initially met the Dennisons when their son, Aaron, disappeared. Kathleen had come to San Diego and hired me. In my search for him, I'd learned that Patrick had inadvertently contributed to their son's disappearance. I'd then learned that Patrick had connections to Peter Codaselli and John Anchor, and everything had gone off the rails. There had been a lot of lying and a lot of deception, and while I hadn't been able to locate Aaron, I had been able to determine that he was dead.
“This has nothing to do with your son,” I said. And then I added for good measure, “I have no reason to believe he's alive. I'm sorry.”
She cleared her throat. “Thank you for answering the questions.”
I nodded, even though I knew she couldn’t see me. My line of business often involved delivering painful information and I’d gotten used to doing so. But it didn’t make it any easier.
She spoke again. “And Mr. Tyler?”
“Yes?”
“Please don't ever call me again,” Kathleen Dennison said and hung up.
TWELVE
I used my computer to locate and buy a ticket from Phoenix to Charleston, South Carolina that left within an hour. It was the cheapest, easiest airport to get to in South Carolina. After I'd done that, I headed to the ticket counter to declare and then check my gun. The ticket agent seemed bored and unimpressed, tagged the case, and sent it away on the conveyor belt. The security lines were sparse so late at night, and I was through TSA in a matter of minutes. I had time to use the bathroom and grab coffee before boarding what looked to be the last flight out of Phoenix for the evening.
The middle seat next to me was empty, the aisle occupied by an older woman who was asleep the moment we lifted off. The temptation was to sleep or to stay paralyzed, but I already felt like time was slipping away from me, so I focused, sipped at the coffee and went to work, trying to utilize the time as best I could.
I pulled out my laptop and purchased the onboard Wi-Fi. I immediately sent emails to Elizabeth's school and to her coach, notifying them that we had a family emergency to attend to, and that Elizabeth would be out for several days. I made no mention of what type of emergency or where she'd be, because I didn't want to draw any more attention to he
r absence than I already had at the end of her track meet. I knew I could expect a follow-up call, probably from both the school and her coach, but I'd deal with those as they came.
I also emailed Lauren's assistant, Genevieve. I'd already raised a flag there by calling and asking so many questions, and I needed to try and bring that flag down. I sent a similar email, that we were dealing with a family emergency and that Lauren would be out for a couple days, and used the caveat that she'd forgotten her phone and that was why I was sending the email. I knew that wouldn't go far, but I thought it would do the trick for at least 24 hours and would hold off any questions her office might have regarding her whereabouts.
Satisfied that I’d done the best I could on those two issues, I went ahead and made a reservation for a rental car at the Charleston airport. I knew that I was using my credit cards and that if Anchor had any line on those, he'd be able to see where I was. But there was no way to get around those things now, and I just had to hope he didn't have his claws that deep into my life.
I spent an hour scouring the Internet for the last name of Dennison in South Carolina. I created a spreadsheet of Dennison names and addresses and then checked them against the map. I'd neglected to get Dennison's mother's first name from Kathleen when I'd spoken to her in both my embarrassment in calling and haste in trying to get off the phone. I concentrated on the names around Beaufort. There were none listed in Beaufort proper, and two that were more than one hundred miles to the north.
But there was one on Hilton Head Island, which was near Beaufort.
I immediately went to the Island Realty website.
They had offices in both Hilton Head and Bluffton, the city next to Hilton Head.
And the name on the Hilton Head address was Hazel Dennison.
A flight attendant came through with the drink cart and I accepted the cup of coffee she offered.
“Working?” she asked, smiling as she handed me the cup of steaming coffee. “You should be sleeping.”
She was right. Almost the entire cabin was dark; for all I knew, I was the only passenger awake.
“Deadline,” I told her.
She nodded in sympathy and pushed her cart further down the aisle and I refocused on my open computer.
Hazel Dennison. I worked her name through the Internet databases without much luck. No phone numbers, no social media, and no employment history. I could find no other Dennisons attached in any way to Hazel Dennison.
I sipped at the now lukewarm coffee. I might have struck out with getting more information but at least I had an address.
I pulled more Dennison names that were linked to addresses in the southern part of the state and put those in my spreadsheet. I didn't know if Hazel Dennison would be one-stop shopping and I didn't want to waste the time on the plane, so I tried to be thorough. I then mapped a route to Hazel Dennison's address from the Charleston airport and put that in the burner phone. Then I found a motel in Bluffton and added that information, too. I didn't make a reservation. I had no idea if Anchor was monitoring my activity, and reserving a room might give him the opportunity to get ahead of me, if he wanted to. He and his people clearly knew where Dennison was, but I didn't want to make it easy for him to find me until I'd found Dennison.
I saved the spreadsheet and opened a new document, typing everything I could remember about Patrick Dennison into it. I culled his Las Vegas address and phone number from information stored on my computer, typed up conversations that I could recall with his wife, the dates of all of my interactions with him; anything I could think of that was somehow related to him. I didn't know if any of it would help, but I wanted to have it all fresh in my head, hoping it might somehow put me in his.
I sent Chuck an email, telling him I'd connected with his friends. I wasn't sure why, but I just felt like I should let him know. He responded within five minutes, telling me he'd already heard from them and that things were fine. There was some comfort in knowing that he was staying involved.
But not much.
We touched down in Atlanta and I had to switch terminals to board a puddle jumper into Charleston. I kept the computer in my bag this time, avoided the coffee, and shut my eyes. I knew rest was going to be hard to come by in the next few days and I didn't want to run completely on empty. As much as I tried, though, I couldn't shut off my brain, and thoughts of Lauren ran through my head like a stock exchange ticker.
It was shocking at how easy we'd settled back into life as a couple with Elizabeth back. I wasn't sure if it was because we were focused on her, or because we weren't sad any longer, or what the reason was, but it was like picking up where we'd left off the day Elizabeth was taken. We smiled at one another, we laughed at one another and we trusted one another. It was easier than I'd expected and we'd even danced around the subject of remarrying. It was like the picture that had been dropped and shattered was being put back together, piece by piece.
I'd been more reticent than she had. Not because I didn't love her, but because I didn't want to fail her again. I'd let her down after Elizabeth disappeared, unable to disengage from my singular obsession to find her. While it had eventually paid off, it was also the reason our marriage crumbled. I knew how hard that had been for Lauren, and even with Elizabeth back safely in our home, I was wary of letting Lauren down again by not being the husband she needed. She'd drawn me back in by not judging me, by not holding our past differences against me, and by just loving me.
When she found out she was pregnant after we'd spent a single night together, there'd been no hesitation on my part to welcome the baby, to welcome another addition to our family. Lauren had embraced the idea, too. And when she lost the baby, we were both devastated. But unlike when Elizabeth was taken from us, we'd pulled together rather than drifting apart. We'd both felt the loss, but we'd trusted one another to comfort the other. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if the stress I'd put on all of our lives in seeking an end to the lives of the people responsible for Elizabeth's disappearance had played a part in the miscarriage. I felt responsible, guilty, even though Lauren had never uttered a single accusation. It was all me, wishing things had gone differently, wishing I could somehow control the outcome of our lives.
As the plane descended into South Carolina, those feelings wreaked havoc on me again. The responsibility and guilt weighed me down like a lead blanket.
I felt as if I'd failed Lauren again.
This time, in a much more dangerous way.
THIRTEEN
I grabbed the case that contained my gun off the luggage carousel and found my way to the rental cars. My planning ahead paid off and I was able to skip the line and pick out a car from what they had, then check out at the booth as I left the lot. Another twinge of anxiety spiked in my gut as the guy in the booth inspected my license and ran my credit card, as I again worried that Anchor might be able to track me some way. I knew he wanted me in South Carolina to find Dennison, but I didn't like the idea that he might be keeping tabs on me. My phone call with him indicated he was now treating this as some sort of game and that made me uncomfortable. Pissed off and uncomfortable.
I followed the exit signs out of the airport and opted for Interstate 95 rather than the state highways, figuring I'd be able to move faster and without stops on the interstate. It was just over a hundred miles to Hilton Head and I took the exit toward the island in just under two hours just as the morning sun started to settle out in the eastern sky. I'd only been to South Carolina once before, about a year after Elizabeth had been abducted, checking on a lead that ended up being bogus. I didn't remember much about it, other than I'd seen a lot of trees with hanging moss, and that the clear morning skies were spectacular.
The motel I’d found online was located on a road right next to the bridge. I remembered the long bridge, the way it curved over the river and led to the island. Both sides of the highway were stacked with chain motels, and mine was the second on the right. The clerk seemed confused that I was checking in so early in
the morning. I told her about my overnight flight and she explained that check-in wasn't until later in the day.
“But the lot's half empty,” I said. “You aren't full, are you?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No.” Her eyes narrowed. “But we aren't supposed to do any check-ins until the afternoon.”
“I'm tired and I need a room,” I said. She opened her mouth but I held up my hand, cutting her off. “I don't want to argue. If you don't have anything available for me now, I can go next door or across the way. Your call.”
She frowned and mumbled something under breath, but she checked her computer and found me a room. I trudged up the steps to the third floor, avoiding the elevator even though the room was adjacent to it. Once in my room, I locked the door behind me, dropped my bag on one of the two beds, got the small coffee maker going, stripped off my clothes and stepped into an ice-cold shower. I knew I was about to hit the empty line on energy, and I needed to wake myself up so I stayed sharp.
I got out of the shower, pulled my clothes back on and poured the coffee. It smelled good but one sip reminded me it was what it was: crappy hotel coffee. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the display, half-hoping there would be a message from Elizabeth or Lauren. Neither scenario made sense: no one but Carter had this number, Elizabeth wouldn’t be using her phone, and Lauren was...missing. But I still hoped. I stared at it for one long, agonizing moment before tossing it on the dresser. I had to focus.
I set the laptop on the desk across from the beds and got to work. I mapped out where I was in relation to the address I'd found for Hazel Dennison. According to the computer, I was about fifteen minutes away from the location. It wouldn't be hard to find.
Then, on impulse, I typed John Anchor's name into the browser window.
I'd never actually searched for him because I'd never had reason to. I'd dealt with him in person, and I knew what he was and what he was capable of. And, if I was being honest with myself, I hadn't wanted to know more about him.
But looking for him was just as fruitless as trying to outwit him.
